


Statement Ends

by LotusFlair



Series: A Series of Archival Speculations [9]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Asexual Character, Endgame, Hilltop Road, It was the spider's plan all along, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Speculation for the series finale so I'm likely way off, Spiders, Tate Britain, The Magnus Institute, William Blake - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-24 00:37:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21329341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusFlair/pseuds/LotusFlair
Summary: Jonathan Sims was having a nice, calm cigarette break outside the Tate Britain when a woman, Anya Villette, shoved a box of cassette tapes into his arms and ran off. A bit out of the ordinary, yes, but that's when Jon noticed the paper taped to the box. The word LISTEN was scrawled across the page, in his hand-writing, surrounded by smudges of dirt, grime, and...blood.ORAfter the end of one world, another Jonathan Sims listens to the tapes.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Jonathan Sims & Everyone, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Tim Stoker & Sasha James
Series: A Series of Archival Speculations [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1496105
Comments: 14
Kudos: 181





	Statement Ends

There was a little bench near the Thames where Jon liked to sit and have a smoke when he was feeling particularly stressed. It was good for watching the boats, and the people, but it mostly gave him breathing room and time to think. They'd just gotten the William Blake exhibit up and running, but Gertrude was already talking about next year's exhibit as well as drawing up a wish-list for the next five years out. Not out of the ordinary for the Head Curator, but as Head Archivist, Jon hated to admit that he was feeling overwhelmed by the demands of his new job. He'd been surprised by Gertrude's recommendation to promote him when she moved into the curatorial position. She always got on more with Gerry than him, but when he accepted a position at the National Gallery, Jon was the next most qualified among his cohort. Now here he was, hiding from the responsibilities of his job for the next fifteen minutes and trying not to have a panic attack. Going back in meant another meeting about fundraising ventures or marketing possibilities or the fact that they hadn't had a meeting in three days. Going back in meant potentially seeing Martin.

Martin Blackwood had taken over as Assistant Conservator in Special Collections six months ago, a lateral move from Assistant Archivist, but it seemed to be a job he was better suited for. Martin was always at his best when he could find a way to repair book bindings or remove acidic agents and adhesives. He liked to fix things and he was good at it, but moving to Special Collections technically took him out of the archives' supervision and since then he'd been bolder in his flirtations towards Jon. Not that it was a huge change in personality. Martin was shy but outgoing in a way that made people want to seek him out for pleasant conversation. He was empathic in the way he showed concern for others - always going out of his way to celebrate the highs and mourn the lows of daily life with the people around him.

So why did he flirt with Jon?

He didn't consider himself a terrible person, just closed off in a way that kept most people at a distance. He worked too late for his own good, slept poorly, and had a generally grumpy demeanor that he hadn't quite shaken since primary school. He had a very small circle of friends, most of whom he barely talked to on a regular basis, he found idle chit-chat exhausting, and he rarely attended the museum's holiday functions. The one soft spot in his life was his cat and very few people knew about Captain Purrtaugh. He'd constructed his social barriers, but Martin seemed determined to shatter them entirely. Not that he wasn't flattered, or interested, but Jon had been in this position before and it all seemed well and good until sex became the topic of interest and then he had to explain his asexuality to the other party. The rejection hurt every time and Jon wasn't keen on going through another bout of depression with the holidays so close.

"Excuse me...are you...Jonathan Sims?" asked a small, scared voice. Jumping abruptly from the interruption of his thoughts, Jon turned to address the stranger who knew his name. She was a petite woman with brown skin, black hair with shocks of white streaking through, and even darker, watery eyes that shifted fearfully at their surroundings. She had a stocky build, one likely born out of consistent physical labor, and in her hands she held a standard size banker's box. It shifted in her grip and Jon heard something rattling around from within. He quickly squashed the cigarette and stood at his full height, somewhere between five foot nine and five foot eleven depending on the shoes he wore. He had a willowy frame and most people underestimated his athleticism because of it, but after three years of boxing at university Jon wasn't worried about handling himself in a fight. Not that he wanted to fight this woman, but there was something about her that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight just as goosebumps littered his arms. Something was off, but he couldn't quite place it.

"Um, yes, I'm Jon Sims," he answered as pleasantly as possible. "And you are?"

"Anya. Villette," she said. She held out the box to him. "This is for you."

"I'm afraid I can't accept that," Jon said. "Museum policy says we're not allowed to receive gifts, but--"

"It isn't a gift," she said, her tone clipped and forceful. "They told me to deliver this to you. That was the only condition. I'm finally home and I need you to take it. It belongs to you."

She set the banker's box on the bench and stepped away. Jon chanced a look at the piece of paper taped to the lid. Scrawled across the top, in his shaky handwriting, was the word LISTEN. Marring the pristine white of the page were smudges of dirt, grime, and splotches of brownish-red that might be blood. His heart rate increasing, Jon lifted the lid only to find what looked like hundreds of cassette tapes.

"What...? Why would I possibly want...?" He looked up for answers, but the woman was gone. "Ms. Villette? Where...? What the hell?!"

It was like she'd never been there, but the box of tapes remained. Checking his watch, Jon realized his break was almost done. He wanted to leave the box. He didn't know the woman, so why should he suddenly take responsibility for a container of out-dated media just because the note on the lid was in his handwriting? He would've remembered setting up a delivery to himself, but there was nothing familiar about Anya Villette or the box or the note. And yet he couldn't make his legs move past the bench. He'd always been a curious child and that curiosity had set him down the path to his current profession. The mysteries of the past, present, and future were all waiting to be found in the archives, museums, and libraries of the world and Jon felt the siren's call of historical investigation and discovery singing in his bones. The longer he stared at the box, the stronger the song thrummed in his veins.

"Fine!" he conceded. Testing the weight with a quick tug, Jon hefted the box across the street. Going through the front entrance, he gave quick nods to the security guards and swiftly took the elevator down to the archives.

"Hey, boss, whatcha got there?" Tim asked as Jon stepped into the processing room that doubled for their office bullpen. The most affable and carefree man in the world, Tim Stoker somehow managed to make academia look cool. When students came for tours or researchers had questions in need of answers it was usually Tim they sent to act as the face of the archives department. It was an easy fit and Tim enjoyed the small spotlight given to engage with the public. It didn't hurt that he was handsome with a perpetual five o'clock shadow and a radiant smile that could blind someone if they weren't careful. He was the only person Jon knew who could get a tan just standing in the rain. For the time being, though, he was standing at the processing table going through a recent donation - a collection of papers from the Lukas family who happened to be one of the museum's most generous donors. Their patronage often put their donated materials at the front of the processing list despite Jon's protests. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Sasha arriving with cups of tea from the lounge.

"Jon? Is that a new donation? I don't remember signing anything in today," she said. Jon had known Sasha James the longest. They'd started as researchers together, helping each other through the first few agonizing months of entry level employment. Nothing romantic had ever sparked between them, but he'd come to depend on Sasha's sharp mind and her affinity for the technological aspects of the job Jon found frustrating on the best of days. When he'd been promoted, he insisted on promoting Sasha as well, which put her more on the administrative side of things but still left her time to process collections and pursue research requests. 

"Um, no, personal project," he said. "I'll be in my office if anyone needs me."

Before either of them could question him further, Jon stepped into his office and shut the door. Setting the box on his desk, he moved the small stack of papers he needed to sign and proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes staring at the mysterious box of tapes. When that produced no results of value, he carefully peeled the paper from the lid and studied it for clues. It was still his handwriting and it was still stained by unknown substances that were very obviously what they appeared to be at first glance. Checking the back of the paper, there was some additional writing - still his chicken scratch - that merely said "Start with Tape 1."

"Well...obviously," he grumbled. He opened the lid again. A pair of spiders immediately skittered over the box, on to his desk, and disappeared into the dark carpeting. Jon did his best to swat them out of existence, but they were gone before he could react. The tapes, however, were still there and it was only then that he noticed they were organized and stacked in numerical order. Lifting the first tray, there were five in total, he realized he didn't have a tape player. Who had a player for cassettes these days? Stepping out of the office, he found Tim and Sasha quietly sipping their tea while sorting through a pile of papers with seemingly nothing in the way of organization.

"Sasha...do you know if anyone in the museum has a-a tape player? One for cassettes?" he asked. She gave him a look he'd come to know all too well when he said something she found odd yet curious. Tim casually looked up from his task, but even he was slightly intrigued by the request.

"I could ask the IT department. There could be one in storage as well," she said. "How soon do you need it?"

"As soon as possible," he said.

"Must be one hell of a personal project, boss," Tim said, his smile curling up over the edges of his mug.

"Tim," Jon warned.

"Shutting up."

"Thank you."

"I'll see what I can do," Sasha said.

"I appreciate it," he said.

It took Sasha a few hours to find the tape player. There had, apparently, been an oral history project conducted in the past and the equipment was placed in storage on the off chance it might be needed for something at some point in the future. "You win again, Hoarders!" Tim had emphatically proclaimed. Sasha brought the player and a set of headphones in just before lunch and Jon spent most of his break contemplating what he was about to do. What harm was there in listening? They were just cassettes. They weren't going to jump out of the box and strangle him. And yet the feeling he'd had after meeting Anya Villette - hair standing on end, goosebumps - hadn't gone away. Why did she have to give him these tapes? What did she mean about returning home?

"Only one way to find out, Jon," he said to himself. He listened outside, but Sasha and Tim hadn't returned from lunch yet. Per his short, yet obvious instructions, he placed Tape 1 in the machine and hit play.

"_Hello, Jon_\--"

Stabbing the stop button, he nearly screamed at the sound of his own voice. What game was being played here? Was this someone's idea of a sick joke? How was he hearing his voice coming from a tape he'd never seen before this morning? He felt his heart racing as sweat prickled on his brow. This was impossible. He hadn't recorded anything on cassette since he was a child playing with his cousins in his grandparents' basement. But he couldn't deny the voice was his on the tape and his curiosity was piqued yet again. He rewound the tape and, with shaking fingers, pressed play again.

"_Hello, Jon...I know this must sound...strange, but if you're listening to this tape, then we've achieved a victory you won't be able to comprehend...yet. To understand why this is happening is going to take some time and, unfortunately, I don't think a flat explanation is going to work. I need you to trust me, trust yourself, and listen to the tapes in the order they've been arranged. If you and I are anything alike, and I think we very much are, then you're going to find this a touch aggravating, but I assure you it will all make sense when you come to the end. There are other people on these tapes with whom you might be familiar. I'd venture Martin, Tim, and Sasha are still in your orbit, at the very least. If they're there, if you work together, then let them listen as well. They deserve to know how events unfolded for them. Just...keep an open mind. I know that doesn't answer any of the questions you have right now, but the answers will come in time. I'm sorry. This is the way it has to be. Don't worry, though. This isn't the last you'll hear from me. End recording._"

Jon stopped the tape and stared at the player. There'd been a rising static surrounding the Other Jon's voice that nearly distorted the sound, but it couldn't hide the weariness of the man's voice. He couldn't imagine feeling that tired, but there was a phantom pain in his heart that gave the exhaustion in the voice they shared more weight. They were connected. Jon couldn't quite explain how, but the more Other Jon talked, the more familiar he became. Whatever was happening with these tapes, whatever message Other Jon was trying to convey, Jon knew the only way to find his answers was to continue listening. He popped out the first tape and slid in the next.

It was marked "Tape 2 - Anglerfish."

***

He was at the point where Other Martin was giving his statement about his encounter with Jane Prentiss when he heard a knock at the door. He was torn between letting whoever it was think he wasn't there and taking a break from the tapes. He checked the time - nearly the end of the day. He'd been so engrossed in listening to Other Jon that he'd lost all track of time. It was probably Tim or Sasha letting him know they were going home. Should he tell them now about the tapes and the alternate reality he'd been given access to? Other Jon had only mentioned them thus far, but he hadn't heard them yet. Did they all sound the same? How different were their realities when so much was already familiar if only by degrees?

"Come in," he said, pulling the headphones off.

Instead of Tim or Sasha, Martin entered the office. Brown curls framed his round face and his gentle smile grew wider when their eyes met. Jon felt his cheeks grow warm, but then he remembered how Other Jon talked about Other Martin with such coldness and he couldn't help but look away in shame. "Drinks, Jon? I know you're not big on trivia nights, but there's a place I really think you'll like and I know you're a sponge for information, so I thought I'd ask if you...Jon? Are you okay?"

He took a deep breath. "I'm - I'm fine, Martin. Um...drinks sound lovely, but I have a lot of work to get done, so I think I'll have to - to..."

He was struggling for the words to explain himself, but it only made him appear more frazzled and less coherent. Martin wasn't an idiot. He picked up on his distress immediately.

"Jon? What's wrong?" Martin asked, his voice heightened. "Are you okay? Do-do you need to go to A&E? I can call us a car!"

"No, Martin, please don't do that," Jon said. "I'm fine. Really. I'm just...well I guess there's no going back from this, is there?"

Martin stared at him suspiciously. "What're you on about?"

Jon disconnected the headphones and resumed the tape.

"_Please stick to the statement, Martin._

_Right. You asked me to investigate that flat that he lived in down in Boothby Road, and that's what I do. I take the Northern Line up to Archway and walk the rest of the way down there. It's still quite early then, and I find the building easily enough..._"

Stopping the tape, he chanced a look at Martin, seeing what he imagined his own face looked like after hearing Other Jon for the first time. Confusion. Fear. Suspicion. Curiosity. Martin experienced all of them within seconds.

"What - what is that?" Martin asked. "How do you have a tape with my voice on it, Jon? I never--"

"Neither did I," Jon said.

"Then how--?"

"Maybe we should just order in and keep listening?" Jon suggested. Pointing at the box of tapes, he watched Martin's eyes grow wide. Only a snippet of his voice heard and Jon could see him trying to put the pieces together with little success. Another moment and Martin made his choice. His nose scrunched up and his brow furrowed, but he gave a slight nod of affirmation. Grabbing a chair from the processing room, he parked it near Jon. They weren't shoulder to shoulder, but the proximity made Jon's stomach flutter.

Pulling out his phone, Martin asked, "Okay. How do you feel about curry?"

Jon smiled. "I love curry."

Martin smiled back. "Me too."

***

Eventually, Tim and Sasha found their way into the fold. Jon played the tapes, letting them hear their voices for the first time. Like Martin, they took a moment to consider their options before committing to listening all the way through. They move their party, if one could call it that, to Jon's flat. He'd volunteered his home, for reasons beyond him, and no one offered an alternative. The weekend was spent engaged in one activity and one activity alone. Sitting around Jon's tiny dining room table, they listened as the statements became more and more disturbing while the growing threat of Jane Prentiss and her worms left them queasy with anticipation. Melanie King's voice came through at one point and Sasha perked up immediately. Apparently King hosted one of Sasha's favorite YouTube show about the paranormal. After one lengthy explanation, and several eye rolls from Tim, they resumed their task. They were all on edge as their counterparts were under attack in the archives, besieged by worms. They laughed when Other Jon asked Other Martin if he was a ghost. They cheered for Other Tim and his unexpected rescue. And they stared at each other, confused, by Other Sasha's voice changing within the distortion and static. The mystery of Gertrude's murder and Other Jon's self-proclaimed mission to uncover the conspiracy gave them pause as Jon turned off the tape.

They took a break afterwards. Tim ordered more food while Sasha refreshed cold mugs of tea. All the while Jon avoided looking at Martin as much as possible. The shame he felt towards Other Jon's attitude refused to vanish and Jon couldn't help wondering if their shared personality traits were as unforgivable as they sounded. Their counterparts were barely friendly towards each other, at least Other Jon wasn't particularly friendly. Other Martin was sensitive and kind. Maybe a little too eager to please, but Jon found it endearing. What did it say about him that his mirror version was so callous and dismissive? In the first tape Other Jon indicated they were similar in personality, but even the Other Jon of the first tape and the one acting as their unofficial guide through the remainder sounded like different people. How much time had passed between them that calmed the harshness in Other Jon's voice? What turned him from beleaguered skeptic into resigned believer?

"Jon? You okay?" Martin asked. He hadn't realized Martin was so close until he was startled out of his thoughts. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but he nodded before shaking his head.

"Not particularly. I'm - I'm sorry, Martin, for how my...counterpart is behaving at the moment," he said.

Sitting in the chair next to Jon, Martin shrugged. "There's nothing to apologize for. That's not you on the tapes, Jon. Not really."

"But what if it is?"

Martin's eyes narrowed in thought, but it wasn't long before he tentatively reached for Jon's hand. Their fingers brushed, but Jon didn't pull away. Martin took it for the invitation it was and gripped with a gentle firmness, showing his support with a comfortable squeeze. "A lot can happen in 200 tapes, Jon. We just have to see it through."

"We?" Jon asked. Looking over Martin's shoulder he saw Sasha and Tim sitting on his couch, quietly conversing. "Oh, yes, all of us."

Martin's smile faltered, but he nodded. "Yeah."

When the food finally arrived, they moved on to the second tray. They heard the paranoia in Other Jon's voice as he descended into stalking and accusations towards their counterparts. Jon avoided their eyes, ashamed all over again of himself and Other Jon. Martin, however, refused to let him wallow in self pity. He kept his hold on Jon strong, his face alight with determination as they pressed onto the next tape. They listened as Other Tim's joviality darkened by small, subtle increments. They found Basira Hussain intriguing and Daisy Tonner respectably intimidating. They all shivered when Michael's voice and his disturbing laugh floated in and out after taking Helen Richardson through his door. They tried to understand what was happening with Other Sasha...and then they heard the changeling statement. Tim wrapped his arms around Sasha as they listened to Not-Sasha chase Other Jon through the tunnels, taunting him with her terrifying voice that sounded like no one and everyone all at once. They gasped when Jurgen Leitner revealed himself, explaining the mysterious Entities to Other Jon, and all of them cried out when Elias beat him to death with the pipe.

There were three more trays, but Jon knew it would look odd if the whole archives department and one conservator were suddenly unavailable. The desire to stay locked away in his flat and listen until all of the tapes were finished was strong, but they couldn't let this side project interfere with their actual jobs. They decided to wait until the next weekend, but it made the work week that much harder to get through. Instead of working on donations or their increasing backlog they found themselves researching people from the tapes. Jon tried to casually ask Gertrude if anyone named Elias Bouchard worked in the archives. Giving him a suspicious look, Gertrude revealed that Elias was a research assistant twenty years ago, but was fired for his smoking habit. When she asked about his sudden interest in the former archives assistant, he changed the subject to Gerry and the National Gallery. She gushed for an hour before Jon felt comfortable enough to leave her office.

Tim looked up Helen Richardson and found her alive and well; a very well known and respected real estate agent. Martin looked into Basira and Daisy, but found very little information readily available online. He managed to uncover a picture from the City of London Police website that showed two women with their names, standing shoulder to shoulder with huge grins on their faces. They made a point to try and find them if only to hear their voices and confirm their identities. Sasha volunteered to contact Melanie King, but received no answer from the YouTube star, which soured her enthusiasm towards Ghost Hunt UK. They discussed Leitner's explanation of the Entities between breaks and Tim even took to writing out his theories on the white board in Jon's office. Martin joked about bringing in a ball of red yarn for him to connect the dots, but Tim didn't turn down the offer.

***

When the weekend returned, they gathered, once again, at Jon's flat. They didn't bother waiting for Saturday. The minute their shifts were over at the museum, they followed Jon home. Captain Purrtaugh, now familiar with all of them, made a bed for himself on Martin's lap once he'd settled into his chair at the table. Jon tried not to smile too hard at the scene before him. Rummaging through his bag, Tim pulled out several bottles of liquor, setting them on the table between containers of takeout.

"Did you have these in the archives the whole time?" Sasha asked. She looked to Jon for an ally in her outrage, but Jon could barely find it in him to care. If he was being honest, scotch sounded like a great idea considering what they were about to do for the next two days.

"I don't imagine it's going to get any easier to listen to," he said. "So what better way to power through than with alcohol?"

Sasha moved as if to protest, but stopped herself. She came to the same conclusion as Jon and nodded. Tim poured them each a glass, which they clinked together lightheartedly before Jon pressed play.

It was in the third tray of tapes when everything went to Hell. Sasha wiped at her eyes when it was confirmed Other Sasha died in the tunnels. Tim kept close to her, but his features hardened as Other Tim spiraled further into depression. He'd battled those demons long ago, but the tapes threatened to unravel years of therapy in one go. Looking across the table, he caught Jon's attention. An unspoken acknowledgment passed between them. It was understood - the guilt, the apologies, the support - all of it was there and they resolved to do better than their counterparts. He was on his feet and on the phone immediately after hearing about his brother's death. Other Tim's pain was mirrored in Tim's voice as he waited for Danny to respond, pacing back and forth across the room.

"C'mon, Dan, pick up. Pick up!" Tim muttered. He paused. "Danny? Oh, thank God! Where are you? Chicago?! What're you doing in Chicago? Yes, I'm aware of the time difference, but I didn't know you were in Chicago because you didn't tell me! Yes, I know you're an adult...Yes, I understand I'm not Mum or Dad...Christ, Danny, I was worried about you, that's all! I-I had...I thought you might be in trouble. Or hurt. I just wanted to hear your voice. I'm s-sorry if I woke you. Yeah...love you too."

"All good, then?" Martin asked.

"He's mad that I woke him up, so yeah. Right as rain," Tim said. Jon felt a similar compulsion to call Georgie when he heard his ex's voice. Thankfully, she was fine as far as the tapes were concerned, but he made a mental note to check in with her after the weekend. When Basira and Melanie mentioned his sexuality, however, he felt his body go cold. Gripping the edge of the table, he took several deep breaths as a wave of dizziness washed over him. Tim and Sasha paid it no mind. The conversation had been brief, but to Jon it was everything. A few more deep breaths and he looked towards Martin. He stared at Jon with an odd expression, like he'd just figured out the last piece of a puzzle. Jon quickly turned his attention back to the tapes, but with each new statement he felt his anxiety rise along with the static.

Other Jon was an avatar of the Eye, an accidental servant of a trauma-fed entity of fear. He felt sick as Other Jon compelled secrets and statements. The more he heard about his counterpart, the less he wanted to listen. After everything they'd learned about avatars from Jude Perry, Mike Crew, and Jane Prentiss as examples...Other Jon was one of them. He was a monster. He turned the tape off mid-sentence and raced to the toilet. He retched for a good five minutes before sinking against the wall. Another five minutes passed and he heard a knock at the door.

"Jon, it's Martin. Can I come in?"

"Yes," Jon croaked, his voice raspy from bile. Martin entered, immediately kneeling by Jon to check him over. He pressed a cool cloth to Jon's neck and forehead, wiping the sweat from his face. Jon sighed contentedly as Martin checked his temperature with practiced, knowing, hands and, unexpectedly, ran his fingers through Jon's hair.

"It's a lot to take in," Martin said conversationally. "Another version of yourself. You...but not you."

"It doesn't help when your other self serves a god of fear," Jon said. "It's hard to see where we differ other than the supernatural aspects at this point."

"You haven't been listening to yourself, have you?" Martin said. He leaned back so they could look at each other properly. "You - he's scared. He doesn't know what's happening, so he's trying his best to do what's right. Doesn't mean all of his decisions are good or rational...but you can't fault him for seeking answers."

Jon smiled sadly at him. "So quick to forgive. I don't know if the other Jon deserves that from you or his Martin."

"He's not the only one who deserves forgiveness," Martin whispered.

"He's also not the only one who's scared," Jon said. It was a loaded comment, but it applied to both of them. He could feel it with each tape they finished. Something was coming, something important. Something world-changing. But they were just two men in a toilet. Other Jon and Other Martin were something else.

Martin held out his hand. "Come on. More tapes. More statements. More chaos. At least you can't say your weekend was boring."

"Boredom sounds exquisite," Jon said, letting Martin help him to his feet.

"I'll keep that in mind," Martin said. He turned to leave, but Jon grabbed his hand. He stopped and turned back.

"Martin...about what Basira and Melanie said...regarding me and my--"

"It's okay, Jon," Martin said. His voice was as soothing as the cool cloth. He cupped Jon's face, testing the fit of his hands before backing away with a sad smile of his own. "I'm here. Keep that in mind...when-if you're ready?"

Jon nodded, dumbfounded. "Yeah. Okay."

"Okay. So...chaos, then?"

***

It seemed like no time had passed before they got to the Unknowing's ritual. Jon barely had time to process the ghostly image of Other Gerard Keay bound to a skin book as a supernatural Wikipedia to two Hunters before the ritual was underway. He was glad, though, when Other Jon took the page. He was prouder still when Other Jon burnt it on tape. He was less enthusiastic about the pain it caused his counterpart to perform such a small kindness. Martin sensed his turmoil and casually slipped his hand into Jon's, squeezing gently. It was Jon's turn to provide support when Elias confronted Other Martin. The dressing down was painful to listen to as the young man endured the torrent of emotional abuse as Elias mentally tortured him to tears. Martin's grip on Jon's hand tightened as he listened. His knuckles were white, shaking in anger. Tears pooled in his eyes, threatening to spill over at any second. Like Jon, Martin's counterpart wasn't all that different, which meant his relationship with his mother and the actions of his father weren't too far off from the truth. And now that private pain was out in the open. Elias was torturing two Martins whether he knew it or not.

Feeling a surge of boldness, Jon pulled Martin to him, forcing the younger man into a protective hug. He miscalculated their weight on the chairs, but even as they fell to the floor Jon refused to let go. He stroked Martin's hair and whispered into his ear, "It's okay, Martin. I have you. It's okay."

The tears finally fell and Martin pressed his face into Jon's chest. Behind them, Jon could hear Sasha sniffling while Tim offered comforting words. They were at the end of the third tray and Jon shuddered to think of what awaited them in the final two. They'd barely managed to keep it together as it was based on how many empty bottles of alcohol decorated his kitchen.

And then Other Tim blew everything up.

No sound escaped their lips. No gasp of surprise, squeal of shock, or muttered cursing cut through the silence. They just stared at the tape player as if waiting for someone to tell them it was all a joke.

"Jon," Tim finally said, his voice as haunted as his eyes. "Did I - did I-he kill--?"

"It would seem so," Jon said.

"Jon..." Tim started.

"There's still another tape," Martin said. He and Jon scrambled back to their chairs, popping out the tape as Sasha slammed the next one in. They listened intently to Elias as he narrated Other Jon's dreams while he lay in a coma. For all intents and purposes, Other Jon was dead. Martin reached for him just as Jon did the same. When Elias was sent to prison and Peter Lukas appeared to Other Martin again, they stopped the tape and sat in a daze of emotions.

"What the fuck is with these messed up tapes?!" Tim shouted. "I...he...I...what is happening, Jon?"

Jon swallowed heavily, shaking his head. "I don't know, Tim...but you - you don't have to stay. Either of you. If it's too much--"

"You think we'd leave you now?" Sasha asked, the disappointment in her tone cutting him deeper than he expected. "No. That's not going to happen."

"We said we'd see this through," Tim said. "Just because Sasha and I...aren't in that world doesn't mean we'd abandon you - both of you - in this one."

Jon looked at the three of them. Tim and Sasha, they were his friends. He could safely think those words and knew they were true. Two weekends spent together and it was like they'd experienced a lifetime of friendship. So much of themselves were on the tapes, the differences between their counterparts minute aside from the eldritch beings. The honesty was refreshing. There was no need to hide anything because Other Jon had already made it known. And Martin...he was something else, something Jon couldn't completely define. He heard it in Other Jon's voice too, a blossoming of emotion that had yet to take shape. Elias's snide remark about Other Martin's "crush" on Other Jon was used against him, but the bravery of Other Martin in the face of such disparagement was breathtaking and Jon knew that his Martin carried the same strength.

His Martin. He smiled at the thought.

"Alright, but I think we've all earned a rest. We'll pick this back up in the morning," Jon said.

Tim scoffed, "Late afternoon more likely."

Jon nodded. He was at the door to his bedroom when he noticed Martin was right behind him. He looked at Jon nervously, but didn't move any further inwards. He stayed at the threshold and said, "Just...sleep well, Jon."

"You too."

***

It was early afternoon when they pulled the fourth tray from the box and, for the first time since they'd started this tape binge, Jon dreaded what he was about to hear. He noticed Martin moved his chair closer to his, making sure there was little distance if either needed comfort or support. Sasha and Tim appeared to do the same. Captain Purrtaugh jumped into Jon's lap and whined for attention, a momentary distraction that we was glad to indulge. Scritching at his neck and behind his ears, Jon let the tiny act of pampering calm him for the moment. Happy with the results, the Captain curled up against Jon's stomach, his contented purrs rumbling against his skin.

He pressed play.

The separation and anxiety hit early and fast. He felt relieved when Other Jon woke from his coma, but Other Martin's absence in service of Peter Lukas and the Lonely made his blood boil. He saw those emotions mirrored in Sasha and Tim's faces across the table. Sasha was quick to note that Other Jon now referred to himself as the Archivist. The ominous nature of the title and the way Other Jon said it without self awareness made Jon's stomach sink with worry. Their eyes darted nervously between one another as Other Jon's powers strengthened. Sasha gasped when he forcibly extracted the statement from Breekon. Yes, the being was a monster, but his cries of pain and the sorrowful statement of love and loss for Hope was almost too much. She walked away for bit, composing herself in the toilet before returning to the table. Other Jon's journey into the Buried to rescue Daisy at least gave them something positive to latch on to. Her reunion with Basira was a sweet reprieve.

The pit in Jon's stomach formed again when they discovered, along with those at the Magnus Archives, that Other Jon was purposefully feeding off people. Like the previous monsters, Other Jon had victims of his power. The panic attack hit instantly, but Martin was by his side without delay. He felt Martin's hands on his face, warm and gentle, thumbs stroking his cheeks as he spoke softly. "It's alright, Jon. Deep breaths. Follow me, okay? In and out. In and out."

He remembered Other Jon's revelation about anchors. He remembered that Other Martin placed the tapes around the coffin, guiding Other Jon home. He let his Martin guide him as well. With each breath he felt the panic dissipate until all he could feel was Martin's hands and the warmth of his eyes so close to his. He brought his hands up to Martin's, letting him know he was with him once again. He knew he didn't need to thank him, but he did all the same.

The relationship between Other Martin and Other Jon wasn't going as favorably and it frustrated Tim more than the rest. The concern they had for one another was there, they said it as much in the recordings, but the inaction was maddening. When Other Martin coldly rejected Other Jon's eye-gouging escape plan, Tim stopped the tape and looked at them with stern eyes, pointing at the player with an even sterner finger.

"What the hell is wrong with you two?" he said. "End of the world on your doorstep, **again**, and an actual conversation is your biggest hurdle? You two are hopeless."

"You mean the other Jon and Martin," Sasha said, smacking Tim's arm.

"Sure."

"I think...love makes you do crazy things," Martin said.

"So it would seem," Jon agreed. They weren't looking at each other. They didn't need to to convey what they meant.

Tim rolled his eyes as he popped in the next tape, muttering, "Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless."

The last three tapes were devastating. Sasha paced the room, biting her nails as all parties raced to the center of the maze. Tim tried to get her to sit again, but the reveal of the Panopticon made his jaw drop. Like his now deceased counterpart, he was an amateur historian when it came to Victorian era architects and architecture. He'd gone on and on about Millbank prison and Jeremy Bentham during the previous week, but now he felt vindicated in his theory about Smirke, the Magnus Institute, and Tate Britain. He smiled in triumph until he heard Peter Lukas send Other Martin into the Lonely. The hardened expression returned as Elias - no, Jonah Magnus - encouraged Other Jon to follow their path.

"I'm really glad this guy got fired," he said. "If I had to listen to that smug asshole all day, I'd have gouged out his eyes myself."

"Tim!" Sasha admonished.

"What? He's a terrible person. He deserves to have terrible things happen to him!"

"Just switch out the tapes," she said, her exhaustion obvious.

Jon couldn't stop himself from taking Martin's hand as they listened to their counterparts in the Lonely. Other Jon's desperation, his need for Other Martin made Jon's heart race as it plunged into his stomach. His eyes welled with tears as he listened to the echoes of loss and depression in Other Martin's voice. When he admitted he loved Other Jon before vanishing, Jon wasn't sure how much more he could take. He never wanted to be the reason Martin felt so alone. Peter Lukas's statement didn't matter. Other Jon's monstrous extraction and the killing blow mattered even less despite his concerns that his counterpart was headed towards something he couldn't take back. No, what mattered most were those last few, precious minutes when Other Jon let Other Martin See him. They were all sniffling and wiping at their eyes when the tape ended.

"I told you they'd figure it out!" Sasha exclaimed at Tim. When he looked over at Jon and Martin, he got the impression there was more to Sasha's words than she realized.

And then Other Jon ended the world.

***

Jon felt the familiar warmth of blankets surrounding him, his head supported by pillows that fit the shape of his head perfectly. It wasn't unpleasant just confusing. He didn't remember going to bed. Did he have too much to drink? They'd been listening to the tapes and...

His eyes opened, revealing his dimly lit bedroom and Martin stretched out on the other side of the bed scrolling through his phone. Not since Georgie had anyone been so casual about lounging in the most intimate of spaces. Then again, Jon's experiences with intimacy were limited. He took in the mental image, locking it away for safekeeping, before interrupting the domestic silence with his raspy voice.

"What're you looking at?" he asked. Martin jumped at the unexpected sound, but recovered quickly with a warm smile.

"Hey...think you can sit up?"

Jon did just that. He was groggy and his limbs didn't want to work in sync, but he managed to situate himself against the headboard in a mostly sitting position. Martin handed him a glass of water that he guzzled greedily.

"Easy. Easy, Jon," Martin said amusedly. "There's plenty more where that came from."

He took the glass and their fingers touched, lingering in the shadows cast by the lamp. Martin, bold as ever, walked his fingers up Jon's arm, across his collar bone, and traced his jawline before brushing through Jon's hair. Jon watched in silent awe, unable to articulate anything beyond small moans of pleasure as his scalp was massaged and his wavy hair untangled. Martin maintained an expression between content and terrified. They were going beyond innocent workplace flirting. They were somewhere else, someplace entirely off the map. But it felt right to hold Jon's hand, to hug him, and to lay by his side when the world became too much to bear. The tapes had accelerated them towards something deeper than he could've imagined had they not been shoved into Jon's hands.

"What do you remember?" Martin asked, ending their moment of peace.

"We were listening to the other Jon and Martin...they were in Scotland...happy...and..." He remembered it again. His counterpart read the statement, opened the door, and let the terrors of the universe out to play among a world of victims ripe for the picking. "Oh, God...Martin."

"You passed out," Martin said.

"How long?"

"About three hours. Nearly had a panic attack myself when you fell off your chair," he said, laughing awkwardly. Jon was fully sat up, knees pulled into his chest, head pressed against his knees. Martin reached over and began to rub his back, giving him the space he needed but letting him know he wasn't alone.

"I don't - I don't think I can do this, Martin," he said in a hushed voice. "It's too much."

"Hey, **you're** not doing this," Martin said insistently. "**We** are. Tim and Sasha, yes, they're here as well, but...it's you and me, or them, actually, against the Apocalypse."

"This isn't a movie or a television show! Or-or a comic book!" Jon shouted, the anger sudden and frightening. "They're - they're us, but not us! They're people and we're just listening to their lives unravel! It-it's sick! I - we - I should be doing something!"

"What, Jon? What should you do?"

Martin didn't match his anger, but Jon could see the challenge in his eyes. It was a legitimate question. He struggled to find the answer, to make Martin understand, but he could barely understand it himself. The anger drained away as quickly as it had bolstered him. Deflated and exhausted, he sank back into the bed, cocooning himself in blankets and pillows. Martin, however, was having none of it. He reached into the folds of fabric until he latched on to Jon and pulled him back up.

"You're right. This isn't some sick form of entertainment. It's their lives and we owe it to them - to us - to listen," Martin said. "Other Jon wanted you to have these tapes for a reason. So, let's finish their story."

"Tim and Sasha?"

"Likely messing up the algorithm on your Netflix account. Sasha's trying to get Tim into K-dramas."

"Hmph," he grumbled, tossing the blanket aside. He looked at the clock and groaned at the late hour. "We've got work tomorrow."

"No, we don't," Martin said, eyebrows bobbing conspiratorially. "We've called it in already. I told Rosie we were celebrating something ridiculous and there was some really bad chicken salad. We're all out with food poisoning for the next few days."

"Mr. Blackwood, I didn't know you had it in you," Jon said, unable to mask his affection.

"Remind me to tell you about my many exploits concocting elaborate schemes for skiving class," he said, the subtle brag hanging in the air.

"Right...oh, what were you looking at? On your phone when I woke up?" Jon asked.

"I was curious about Jonah Magnus," he said, the name sour on his tongue. "Wanted to see how he fared on our side."

"And?"

Martin shrugged. "Just another rich, old, white man in England's storied history of rich, old, white men."

"I've never wanted to strangle a dead rich, old, white man more in my life," Jon said.

"I encourage this way of thinking!" Tim called from the living room.

"Also, your walls are very thin, Jon!" Sasha added.

"Did you kiss yet?!"

"Tim," Jon warned.

"Shutting up!"

A brief sigh and giggle between them and they walked out of the bedroom. They greeted Sasha and Tim with awkward smiles, but Martin was determined to power through the moment without giving Tim a chance to say anything else.

"Okay, what do we want for dinner?"

"I don't know about you guys," Tim said, "but I'm really craving chicken salad."

***

The pizza was delivered and they settled in for the final tray. They'd moved from the dining table to the sofa and comfier chairs in the living room. Sasha sat in her chair, but Tim opted to sit on the floor in front of her, leaning back for support should either of them need it. Jon and Martin took up residence on the sofa. Blankets and pillows were distributed, shots of whiskey poured, and a brief look of fear passed between them before Jon, once again, pressed play.

It was messier than they expected, but the world Other Jon and Other Martin found themselves in was full of monsters. Their battles were many, but they fought. It took a while for Other Jon to get his head together, to acknowledge his part in the apocalypse, willing or otherwise, and move on but he did it with Other Martin's help. As afraid as Other Martin sounded, he grew stronger as the tapes progressed. There were encounters with other avatars, none of them entirely happy with the state of the world and all of them eager to blame the Archivist for their fate. Death was far more frequent. It became harder to listen to the breaking of bones, the wet squelches of blood and flesh, and the cries of pain. No one went unscathed. Sasha cried into Tim's chest when Basira and Daisy came together once again, covering her ears when their story abruptly ended.

The threat of Jonah Magnus lingered, but he was practically nonexistent until they devised their endgame. It was brilliant in its simplicity. One last entity to birth and it's entry into the world guaranteed no one would survive, not even a self-proclaimed king and his Watcher in the sky. So, Other Jon and Other Martin, along with Melanie and Georgie, became midwives to the Extinction. They let it take form and shape because even the things we fear are afraid of something. That seemed like the end, but there was one last tape to go.

"_Hello again, Jon. If you've listened as I instructed, then you understand what's happened. What I've - we've - unleashed on the world. Our world, at least. I know you're still wondering why I sent these tapes to you and you deserve an explanation. Anya Villette was a gift from the Web. They'd pulled her through the tear at Hilltop Road as an experiment and a potential escape route should their plans require additional contingencies. At least, that's what Annabelle Cane wanted us to believe. Gerry was right. The Web liked the world the way it was because they had all the power they needed to manipulate people as they wished. But they saw the inevitability of Jonah Mangus's plan. The more it was delayed, the more he'd try. He was a nuisance that wouldn't stop, so they decided to let him have his victory. They played along so they could stop him for good. _

_I was their gift...and their weapon. I could bring the entities into this world, but I could also destroy what I'd created. I Knew them all. I Saw them all. Except one. Magnus's eagerness to create his horrific utopia under the Watcher left him blind to the consequences of such change. The Extinction wasn't just a human fear. It was shared among the entities as well. If there's no one to fear them, then there's no food. No life. Nothing. The End always wins, but there are loopholes that can be exploited. The tear in reality was never a contingency. It was the plan. Another reality where only the Web exists. I asked that they send Anya through with the tapes. She didn't deserve to die in a world that wasn't her own. All she had to do was deliver the tapes to you so our story could be told. I don't know if Annabelle believed me. Honestly, I don't think she cared. She got what she wanted regardless. _

_I don't know how much of my reality will bleed into yours when everything's said and done. I'm no expert on alternate universes, obviously. I'm - I'm sorry to lay this burden on you, Jon, but it seems we're destined to hold the weight of the world on our shoulders. I need you to keep an eye on things in your world. Yes, the irony hasn't escaped me. Mind the spiders and Hilltop Road. The Web is subtle, but I think you'll know what to look for. And, if you're able, look after Martin. I tried to get him to go through with Anya, but he refused. Stubborn as always._

**Jon...love, we've got to go. Georgie's waiting.**

_Yes. I'm done._

**You - you think this will work?**

_I...I don't know. I honestly don't know. _

**...Okay.**

_Yeah...End Recording._"

And that was it. No more tapes. Just silence and a mission given across realities.

***

Jon found himself wandering the William Blake exhibit the following week. One of the benefits of working in a museum, he got private viewings after hours. The security guards were used to his late night strolls, nodding to him as he passed. He stopped in front of one illustration in particular, "The Inscription over the Gate," part of Blake's series depicting Dante's _Divine Comedy_. The clear vision of Virgil guiding a fearful Dante through the Gate of Hell took on a deeper meaning the longer he stared at the paper and pigment. He could sympathize and he wasn't sure he'd have had the same level of sympathy two weeks earlier. Other Jon was right. Anya Villette was a gift. She'd given him something he'd never be able to reciprocate to the same degree. He could only hope to live up to what his counterpart had achieved.

"Jon? You okay?" Martin asked, his voice echoing across the gallery. He shivered, remembering Other Martin's voice in the Lonely. He heard Martin approach, feeling the warmth of proximity once they were standing side by side, staring at the illustration together.

"Yeah. Just...taking in the art. Soaking up the culture," he said. Martin regarded him carefully. He was becoming more aware of Jon's moods when it came to contemplation and brooding. He could get lost in his head quickly. Experimenting with ways to break him out of those moods, Martin said:

"_There is a Smile of Love _

_And there is a Smile of Deceit _

_And there is a Smile of Smiles _

_In which these two Smiles meet _

_And there is a Frown of Hate _

_And there is a Frown of disdain _

_And there is a Frown of Frowns _

_Which you strive to forget in vain _

_For it sticks in the Hearts deep Core _

_And it sticks in the deep Back bone _

_And no Smile that ever was smild _

_But only one Smile alone _

_That betwixt the Cradle & Grave _

_It only once Smild can be _

_But when it once is Smild _

_There's an end to all Misery_"

Jon looked at him with amused awe. "I thought you were a Keats man."

"My repertoire is vast, Mr. Sims," he said. He held out his hand. "Ready to go? Sasha and Tim are already at the pub."

Jon sighed. "Trivia night?"

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it!" Martin said enthusiastically. Jon couldn't deny the infectious nature of Martin's smile. Giving in, he took Martin's hand, bringing it to his lips for a light kiss on his knuckles. Martin's cheeks turned bright pink.

"Alright. Lead on!"

The security guard gave another nod as they walked out of the museum, unable to wipe the smiles from their faces.

The spiders watched them march on until they were specks on the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is a long one, but I've had the idea in my head for a while and I needed to get it out.
> 
> There is currently a William Blake exhibition at Tate Britain, which happened to work out for me! I tried to do as much research as I could, but I'm afraid I can't go to Jonny's level. I don't have the time. 
> 
> The poem Martin recites at the end is "The Smile," by William Blake.


End file.
